


Second Chances

by Linyah



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Eventual Romance, F/M, Gen, Grieving Wanda, Hurt/Comfort, Magic, Paranormal, Pietro Maximoff Lives, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Reader is magical, Reader-Insert, Violence, WIP, slight AU, soul contract
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-02-06 23:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12828099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linyah/pseuds/Linyah
Summary: Few souls are worthy enough to be offered a second chance at life for they are often tainted and worn. But there are those that hold on to their purity just long enough to be rescued from the purgatory within their broken bodies. Ancient powers that are long forgotten by most come into play with these special cases and produce miracles when all hope is lost.A ressurection is possible, but at what cost?





	1. Chapter 1

“Oh? And what do we have here?” 

You drifted over to the cold lockers, careful to tread silently as you passed. It wouldn’t do you any favors if someone interrupted you this early in your search. Pressing your palms against the cold doors, you felt something faintly warmer on the other side. This was the one that you had been in search of. You hadn’t seen a soul like this in a while. 

Opening the door, the cold air escaped into the room in the form of mist, bringing with it the smell of death and the beginning of decay. It was a smell you had become accustomed to for a while. Pulling the table out, the cloth which covered the body fluttered lightly. Once the person was in the open, you folded the white cloth back to reveal the young man down to his abdomen. His face was lean, with scruff decorating his chin leading up to his cheeks. It moved into the mop of hair that decorated his head. It was curious though, what was originally a dark chestnut colour faded into a glistening silver colour towards the tips. His body was lean as well, but muscular and well worked. When he was alive, you were sure he was strong, and fast. You could see it in his physique.

You ghosted your fingers over the man’s face. It was as if he was simply sleeping. Little did it show what type of fight the young man was internally going through. The coroner had done wonders by cleaning up the body. The metal bullets that pierced this man had done a number on his body. They had tore through skin, muscle, and organs, leaving them in terrible trauma. He would have had a decent chance at surviving had he not lost so much blood. It had inhibited his healing almost completely. There was something interesting though. Brushing your hand against the stitches, you hummed in thought. The wounds that had been stitched together had faint signs of healing. 

To Western medicine, this would have gone unnoticed or ignored. This man was already dead, far from saving. His heart had stopped and he was no longer breathing, typical signs of death. But there are things in this world that even modern medicine or science cannot explain. At least not yet. However, you knew better than most. 

There was an energy that was harboring deep within him. It had receded from his extremities, but you could feel it within his chest and his head. He was still warm. Not his body per se, but just above it. The air that surrounded him was heated, completely different than the air surrounding a dead man. 

Trailing your hand up to his forehead, you placed your head beside his to speak into his ear. Souls this far receded were sometimes difficult to reach, especially when they were solely concerned with staying hidden from the reaper and preserving what was left of their bodies. 

“You are a resilient one. Tell me, what do they call you?” 

His energy fluctuated before halting slightly, as his soul had paused in its anguish in favour of listening to you. 

“I can assure you, you’re not hearing things.” 

His energy rose tentatively to brush against your hand. He thought he was dreaming, unsure of how real you were. Despite his hesitation, you were excited simply due to his acknowledging of your presence. This was a good sign. He hadn’t succumbed to insanity from his disjunction. This is key to deciding which souls are to receive a second chance. There were others that had come before him that had fallen into insanity at a much shorter time. His kind was definitely seldom seen. 

“Yes, I can hear you. You’re not gone, not yet.” 

He rushed at you, stronger his time, eager for company other than the empty shells of those who have already passed on. He found vigor and reassurance in your words, excited that he hadn’t completely lost himself or his sense just yet. Purgatory within one’s body can often feel like eternity, and you were sure that he was experiencing just that. He wanted to return. He was determined. 

“Yes, it is possible. But whether or not you return is not up to me. You must be strong enough to do so.”

Your fingers began to burn from his energy. He was determined, and unyielding. Then he lashed out, angry and upset. He accused you of wasting his time, being nothing more than a malevolent being that preyed on the weak. 

“Good deals are not given freely. To do what you request will take a great effort on my part. I will need fair compensation for my time.” 

His energy stilled as he considered your offer. He poked at you, more wary of you this time. 

“Your name; that is all I require to restore you. Should you not return, my efforts would be for naught and you will pass on with all that is rightfully yours.” 

His energy struck your hand, almost too quickly for you to register. This time it was you who went silent. His energy shook in anticipation and anxiousness, worried and excited for what would come next. 

“Then tell me, what is it that they call you?” 

You leaned your ear over his still lips, listening carefully for his reply. His soul and his energy repeated it over and over again, louder and louder with each repetition until you could hear it clearly within your own mind. 

You quirked your brow at the intensity of his response. You had heard of his name before, but at the time you had no face to match. It made sense now, though. His name had carried with the wind, along with the names of others which were destined to live lives outside of their timed mortality. They were gifted every once and a while for the resilience of their spirit, strong and pure in ways often incomprehensible to most. They were the ones most deserving, which was why you were beckoned. 

“I see,” you began, “I hear you, Pietro Maximoff, and we have a deal.” 

With that, you pressed the palm of your hand against the top of his head, and with a swirl of smoke, the two of you were gone, leaving an empty and cold mortuary behind.


	2. Chapter 2

The sound of stone grinding against stone echoes off the walls of a cave. The sweltering heat and heavy humidity did little to hinder the grinding of your mortar and pestle as you prepare a fresh poultice that would serve to seal the young Maximoff’s flesh wounds. You already clipped the twine a little while ago, and pulled it from the gaping holes in the body of the man lying before you. With his body shut down for so long, it has been long since his blood stopped pumping. It wasn’t a surprise when you pulled the twine from him that there was no mess to clean, save the infected chords which you disposed of. The instruments used within hospitals and morgues are wrought with negative energy that only help to infect what they touch and space they inhabit. It doesn’t do you nor Pietro any favors by keeping the discarded twine within reach as you attempt a binding ceremony. The procedure requires a healing space filled to the brim with life energy, and you can’t risk poisoning it with the synthetically made instruments of the modern world. You had toss the twine into the cleansing fire to purify the negative energy before you begin the process to ensure a cleansed space. 

The poultice you grind is soon to be done though. It’s already of a thick gelatinous consistency, and most of the ingredients are finished congealing together in a green paste. Beside you, you already prepared the bandages to keep the poultice in place. All that’s left is to pour some of your own energy into the poultice as you move it over the wounds to help jump start the process once the binding ceremony is complete. 

Placing the supplies to the side, you move beside the fallen hero. Eying the sallowness of his skin, you frown. Rot is beginning to set into the body, a terrible sign. You’ll need to move quickly before the body is irreparable. With a wave of your hand, his body lifts from the ground and floats to the fresh water pool. The crystal blue hues are almost iridescent under the moonlight that shines through the opening above. Slowly, Pietro’s body is lowered into the water until his form is mostly swallowed by it, save for his face. He will still need to breathe should this go according to plan. 

You follow him into the water, sinking only waist deep as you stand beside him. You guide his body gently through the water, careful not to stir up waves as you go. The moonlight shines brighter now, offering you some illumination as you work. It cascades through the open skylight, reflecting off the small ripples on the surface of the water, the reflections dancing across the roof of the cave. 

His body is naturally buoyant in the water, offering little resistance as you position yourself to cradle his shoulders and neck in your arms. 

“Pietro Maximoff, I have heard your plea,” you say as you cradle the back of his head to steady him. “I have heard your name whispered across the wind and it speaks of your injustice. Fate has brought me to you to right a wrong. You still have more to live for, more to do, more to achieve.” 

You skim a hand across the water until your fingers dance across his chest. As you take a breath to channel your magic, you begin to feel rain fall through the sky light. It drips slowly at first, but soon begins to pour. The sound of the rain hitting the water echoes louder and louder against the cave walls as you feel your magic growing stronger in your hand. You look up in surprise at the new event, and see the moon still smiling down at you despite the downpour. It is Mother Nature granting you life energy to bring this young man back to life. The sheer amount of energy she is feeding you, from the rain, to the moon, to the air that swirls around you, is enough to give you the confidence you need. There is something about this boy that is special, and she smiles in his favour. 

“Do you see this, Pietro?” you whisper in awe. Never have you witnessed someone so favoured. 

_He is a son of the wind,_ Mother Nature whispers to you, as the wind swirls more violently. _Bring him back to me._ And suddenly everything falls into place. It was Mother who has brought you to Pietro. He was one of her favoured ones. 

“Do you see this, Pietro Maximoff?!” You yell above the crashing sounds around you, in awe of the spectacle Mother has created just for him. “From the minute you were born, Mother has favoured you! And she will do all in her power to have you return to her! She has brought me to you to do just that.” Turning your gaze back to the serene young man in your arms, you raise your arm. A bright white light glows in your palm, and grows until it engulfs your hand. “So, you best not disappoint her.” 

With all your might, you throw your open palm down, thrusting it against his chest and pouring your magic into him. Just as you do, a lightning bolt descends from the heavens, and strikes with you, escalating your power tenfold. A great explosion happens, and you’re ripped away from his body. The cave explodes with bright white light that can be seen from miles away, and for a moment everything goes quiet. 

When the light finally dims, it gives way to a quiet scene. Pietro’s body is suspended in the air, still lying on his back as the wind cradles him down towards you. When his is finally in your arms, you notice that he is still cold. He isn’t breathing, and you can no longer hear his soul. Something inside you churns. Has his spirit moved on? You frown at the thought. He is favoured by Mother; how could this be possible? 

“Was I too late…?” you whisper to yourself. Mother offers you no answers as her consciousness has already been drawn elsewhere. 

With a sigh, you prepare to bring him back to land, when his hand suddenly grips your forearm. A strangled breath is ripped from his lips and his eyes are blown wide for the first time since his death. He flails at first, confused and scared as the adrenaline courses through his awoken veins. A smirk pulls at your lips as you steady the young man as he takes in his surroundings. Soon he is aware of you, breathing hard, and staring back at you in wonder. He can’t seem to speak the question on his mind.

“Welcome back, Pietro Maximoff,” you say as you free him of your grasp, “to the world of the living.”


End file.
